“I Sense disquiet in your soul, my dear. What it is that troubles you so?”
“I was created with a directive, but even that feels like it is unfitting. I do not enjoy... this. I do not feel like we are in the right. Harming others, seeking aid like this. It is not... not...“ a glitch in their synth. “... not a good purpose. Not mine. Not like... this.“
“Then allow me to offer you an alternative, one which may find you more agreeable.“
Zenyatta Appreciation Week Day 01 - (First) (Impressions) (Starting Point/History)
I chose to go with one of my various ideas for Zenyatta’s origins, which is him as a Null Sector Omnic. When the Uprising ended, Mondatta helped him get smuggled out as one of the Shambali, offered him the freedom to choose, then his guidance when he decided to stay, and help in giving himself a new appearance, so he could choose their own path
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surprise i’m actually full of shit and of course i’d channel my inner araki and do a jjba AU
ghost in the machine is actually a cheap soft and wet knockoff and it can change someone's emotions if they get in contact with one of its bubbles
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This is not filling any prompt but this thought has been in my mind for so long so I would take the chance to express it.
Zenyatta’s Buddhist symbolism is what got me into OW. I have been told that the Shambali cannot be deemed the exact same thing as Buddhism but I tend to apply as many concepts as possible. That is why one core value of Zenyatta’s bugs me. Buddhism does not believe in souls.
“Buddhists cannot accept that there is anything either in this world or any other world that is eternal or unchangeable. We only cling to ourselves and hope to find something immortal.”
http://www.budsas.org/ebud/whatbudbeliev/115.htm
Impermanence is an important teaching in Buddhism and it leads to the idea that nothing lasts forever and nothing belongs to you. The better you understand this the more you can let go and achieve true happiness (but living is suffering. This is a topic for another day). Also what importance is a soul to a robot? What is its origin and where does it go? Consciousness is what enables human to do deliberate action and generate Karma. Zen definitely has it. To what extend? Debatable. But he for sure has it.
This thought is more reasonable to me why Genji settles with Zenyatta. “Your body is rebuilt but deep in your soul you are still Genji” is such an easy conclusion that anyone can come up with. Zen lets him know life is ever-changing and whether he is still the same old Genji doesn’t really matter. His body had changed. Though artificial, it is the inevitable nature of existence. And he has to set his ego(self) free to live up to it.
Then again the Shambali is not Buddhism and depending on what the Iris is, it could lean more to New/Age but like... you can’t borrow so many references from Buddhism and omit an undeniable truth in their philosophy... you just can’t...
summary: They still whisper about him, on dark and lonely days, when the rain is violent, and the winds show no mercy. They call him insane in the same breath they call him a savior. They say he barely counts as a hero, for heroes do not often walk and live in shadows. They call him the Monk.
[ao3]
They still whisper about him, on dark and lonely days, when the rain is violent, and the winds show no mercy. They call him insane in the same breath they call him a savior. They say he barely counts as a hero, for heroes do not often walk and live in shadows. They call him the Monk.
To them, he has no other name. He is simply a title, a faceless being for people to project their worst fears and darkest illusions. He worships no god, no material being, no spirit or realm, but a being of catastrophe. A timeless, ageless, pseudo-god that shows paths only to destruction and chaos. He worships a being beyond the comprehension of any mortal, including the Monk himself. He says nothing more of the thing he worships – will not even speaks its name – only stating that it lives and walks in the darkest and deepest of shadows, hiding in the crevices of the mind. He does not preach his gospel, nor what this creature of wanton destruction asks of its followers, and the floating Eyes that circle his neck keep people from asking questions.
The Monk is the last resort. The black-cloaked figure, tentacles made of machinery, hovering eerily above the dirt, is a well of deep and dangerous power, and none choose him unless they must. But they never find him before he finds them. He always arrives when the people become desperate, and his only explanation for finding them so quickly in their hour of need is, “The Iris of the Universe always watches.”
Along with the mysterious traveler is his companion, known only as the Swordsman. They’re not sure he even has a name, for the Monk never uses it, and the Swordsman has never been inclined to introduce himself. He dresses in similar robes to the one he follows, dark and flowing, a wicked sword strapped to his back. His head is covered by a cone-shaped hat that hides his face, but when he looks underneath the wide-brim, only his eyes are visible, glowing an angry red. The rest of his face covered by a strange metal casing, stopping only at his neck. Some believe he can’t speak. Some say he chooses not to.
The two are always seen together, and the Monk claims they serve the same creature, the Iris. Some whisper that the Monk created the Swordsman to serve him. Some say he was enslaved to serve the Iris and its followers. None can say for sure, but the two travelers themselves. And they never speak of how they met.
All in all, a perplexing duo to wander throughout the land, righting wrongs where they see fit, and asking for no material wealth in return.
But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a price.
“Look there, my apprentice,” the Monk murmurs. “It appears we have found what the Iris is seeking.”
The Swordsman steps to the side of his master, swift as an eagle’s graceful dive, and gazes down at the quaint village from their perch on the side of the overhang, seeing clearly despite the night’s darkness. His Eyes glance to the Monk. He observes the place from their far away perch like a wolf stalking a lame deer. The tentacles on his face move, gently twist around themselves and the others, as if each of them has a mind of their own. His arms rest in his lap as he floats above the ground, lotus position. The floating Eyes encased in metal and gears rest like a grotesque necklace around the Monk’s neck, looking in all directions. Servants of the Iris who did not serve correctly, or enough.
All at once, the Eyes swivel around to look at the Swordsman, gently pulsating green light. The man’s own eyes glow red as he tips back the brim of his hat to gaze into the disturbing jewelry. The Iris of the Universe gave him the blessing of speech, but only the Monk can hear him. The black-cloaked figure tilts his head as he listens. The Swordsman’s hands twitch, aching for the pommel of his sword.
“Peace, gentle warrior,” the Monk says, without irony. “We are not needed for a fight just yet.”
The Monk taps his fingers against each other, making little metallic clicks as his joints move and fingertips touch. He wears a bracelet on each wrist, large and black, inscribed with green runes in the language of the Iris. The Swordsman thinks they look like manacles, but the Monk does not agree. They don’t agree on a lot of things.
“The Iris tells me we are in the correct place,” the Monk says, turning away to travel back down the cliff. “Come, dear apprentice. There will be a fight soon enough.”
The Swordsman follows, looking one last time over his shoulder. Something crawls down his spine and chills his heart – they are not alone.
“Whadda you want?”
“My companion and I,” the Monk says, gesturing to himself, and then the Swordsman, “only wish to stay the night in your delightful little town.”
The crooked man at the gate bites on his lower lip with the remainder of his yellowed teeth, then fishes a key ring out of his pocket, and unlocks the gate for the travelers.
“Don’t be causin’ no trouble, now,” he warns them.
“Oh, we won’t,” the Monk promises. He looks the man in the eye as he passes into the town, and so do all of the other Eyes. “Embrace oblivion, my friend.”
The man grasps his chest and steps backward, as if he’d be shoved. The Swordsman follows his master, nodding as he passes. The man watches them go, swallowing thickly as he closes the gate and returns to his watch.
The darkness is heavy, no moon or stars to light their way, only the light posts – glass boxes with flickering candles – show the way. But the Monk and the Swordsman walk the streets as though they’d lived in the village their whole lives. They enter the first tavern they see, The White Whip.
The interior is almost empty, save for a few lonely drinkers. The owner is wiping down the bar, and looks up to see his new customers. He begins to smile, and then it falters.
“Welcome to the White Whip,” he says, nerves creeping into his voice. “What can I get for you?”
“Thank you, Caius, but we’re not here to drink,” the Monk says, waving his hand dismissively.
Caius’ eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “How…do you know my name?”
The Monk’s entourage of floating Eyes turn to the man and glow. “The Iris knows many things, good man.”
Caius freezes, swallows, and looks down at the counter. “I – if you’re here for a room, we’re all full up.”
The Monk laughs, but it holds no humor. “It’s not very polite to lie to a paying customer.” He pulls a pouch out from his belt, and drops a few coins onto the counter. “Now, you have at least one room available, don’t you? Upstairs, the third door on the left?”
Caius squeezes his eyes shut. Beads of sweat trail down his forehead. “How –”
“Is it available?”
“Yes! Yes. Gods, just stop looking at me.”
The Monk flicks his wrist and the Eyes return to their natural state. “The key?”
Caius wipes his brow with one shaking hand, and uses the other to snatch a key from under the counter. He drops it in front of the Monk like it burns him and swipes up the coins like they’ll cure the injury.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” the Monk says, lifting the key from the counter and pocketing it. “Embrace oblivion.”
He floats to the stairwell, the Swordsman not far behind. Caius watches them leave, and collapses onto the bar counter, shaking and in tears, once they reach the top of the stairs. He never speaks of what the Iris said to him. Not to anyone.
The next morning, the Monk and the Swordsman are downstairs in the tavern, sitting at a table in a shadowed corner. They buy no food and no drink. The Monk hovers in place above one of the chairs, shuffling a deck of cards absent mindedly. The Swordsman leans against the wall, crossing his arms, nearly invisible in the darkness that clings to the wood. The Monk deals a deck of cards to himself and four empty chairs. He sends one Eye to each of the four places, studying his own cards.
The cards in front of the Eyes begin to move by themselves, playing the game. The Swordsman watches the Monk’s deck over his hooded shoulder, and points to a card or speaks to his master with the remaining Eyes. The red and green glow eerily as they communicate.
A ragged man approaches the table, holding a threadbare cap in his hands. “I d-don’t mean t’ bother you sirs, but –”
“Would you like to be dealt in?” the Monk asks, not looking up from his cards. “The game is called Băo Huáng – I’d be happy to teach it to you.”
“N-No thank you,” the man says. “I just…wanted to know if you’s the fightin’ kind.”
The Monk looks up from his cards, and waves his hand. The four Eyes return to his neck, the cards falling and scattering. He snaps his fingers and the cards stack themselves in a neat pile in the center of the table. The Swordsman straightens, tipping back the brim of his hat to look at the man, his hands noticeably fidgeting.
“We have been known to assist in such matters,” the Monk says. “Please, sit.” He gestures as if welcoming someone to his home, and a chair pulls itself out in front of the man.
Warily, he sits, shooting nervous glances at the Swordsman. “I work in the mine jus’ outside of town, and we’ve got a bit of a… problem.”
“Something that has killed a great number of workers, I take it?” the Monk says, his fingers steepled on the table.
“Yes, sir,” the man says, nodding vigorously. “It’s a terrible creature – been here for months. No one’s been able t’ do anythin’ about it.”
The Eyes whip around to look at the Swordsman, and start glowing intensely. The man jumps, but the Monk holds his hand out to calm him. The man nods, staring at the glowing Eyes.
The Monk tilts his head. “My companion wishes to know what manner of beast this creature is.”
“Well, I-I don’t rightly know, sir,” the man says, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s a giant...metal spider, y’see.”
“A giant metal spider?”
“Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but I swear on my own life, it’s real.”
The Monk nodded. “Very well. Tell us where the mine is, and we shall defeat this… metal spider.”
The man immediately blurts out a stream of directions, drawing an invisible map on the table with his fingers. When he stops, he’s almost out of breath. “Thank you, a thousand times, stranger. Myself, I’m not very rich, but I could get the other miners to –”
The Monk throws back his head and laughs. “Your coin means nothing to me. I have no use for it.”
“I – well, if you’re sure –”
“But there will be a price.”
“Y-you just said that –”
“A price does not always mean coin, my friend,” the Monk says, and all of his Eyes turn to look at the man. He swallows. “You will know when your time comes to pay.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
The Monk claps his hands and stands up, and Eyes all returning to normal. “I think we should start looking for this creature.” He looks back at the Swordsman. “Don’t you agree?”
The Swordsman nods, and lowers the brim of his hat back over his eyes once again.
The Monk looks to the miner one last time. “Embrace oblivion.”
The mine is just on the outskirts of the little town, in the lowest cave of a nearby mountain. Mine carts and pickaxes litter the ground, and a sign on the entrance to the cave reads “North Peak Mine – CONDEMNED.”
“Ready your blade, my apprentice,” the Monk says. The slither of metal on metal rings as the Swordsman takes his sword out of its sheath. His hands grip the hilt, fitting as though they belong there. The Swordsman takes the lead into the mine, and the Monk follows close behind him.
The North Peak is dark. The oil torches have long-since burned away the last of their fuel, and any lanterns are shattered, glass strewn across the cave floor. The Monk uses the glow of the Eyes, in lieu of any proper light source, trailing them ahead of the two so they could see where they were walking.
The Swordsman listens carefully for any sign of movement – ahead, behind, above, or below. For what feels like hours, nothing.
Eventually, the Monk and the Swordsman come across a magnificent room, the claustrophobic corridors of the mine even smaller in comparison. It opens up from other tunnels like a bee hive, all leading back to this chamber. It’s as big as a cathedral, with tunnels and holes all up and down the walls. Tunnels that are too big to be the mine’s.
A skittering noise, like the click of a thousand teeth, echoes all around the chamber. The Swordsman readies himself, dropping into a defensive stance. The Monk spins his hands around one of the Eyes, and it floats above the Swordsman’s head, a tendril of golden light connecting to him.
“Walk in the shadows, my apprentice,” the Monk says.
The Swordsman nods, and hugs the wall, listening to the echo, searching for the source.
A loud boom echoes throughout all the tunnels as something giant drops from the ceiling of the chamber. A ball of metal falls into the center of the room, and as it uncurls, it reveals eight elongated legs, four red, glowing eyes, a bulbous body, and pincers like daggers. It shrieks, a sound like a million bats dying, and the Swordsman holds his head in his hands, trying to block the sound. The Monk is unphased.
The Monk’s Eyes glow with green energy, and shoot out toward the face of the screaming creature. They crash against the metal, shattering one of its eyes, and knocking free one of its pincers. It stops screaming. Instead, it whips towards the Monk.
The Swordsman dashes at lightening speed, cutting off the spider and slashing at one of its front legs. The spider moves the leg, and another ball of energy crashes into the other. It rears up in pain, and slashes at the Swordsman.
He ducks out of the way, slipping underneath the arched leg, and slicing at the body. The sword glances off the metal hide, and the spider’s front-middle leg, thrashes out and kicks the Swordsman back. The impact sends him flying, and he crashes against the wall.
The Monk shoots another volley of green energy at one of the front legs, and hits the second joint, breaking the limb nearly in half. The leg goes limp, sparking, and the spider screams again.
The Swordsman stands, shakily, encased in golden light. A stomach wound, bleeding heavily, closes and the blood vanishes. His crooked arm snaps back into place.
“Go for the legs!” the Monk shouts at him.
The Swordsman dashes toward the spider, and it skitters toward him, dragging its broken leg. He slashes at the unbroken leg, but the spider leaps at him, trying to gouge him with its remaining pincer. The Swordsman leans back, holding his sword in front of him protectively.
Three balls of energy hit the side of the spider’s head, and the spider recoils. The Swordsman jumps into the air, and lands on the spider’s back, shoving his sword down.
The spider screeches louder than ever, thrashing around, trying to throw off its unwanted rider. The Swordsman doesn’t budge, instead twisting his sword deeper into the mechanical beast.
The spider jumps into the air, landing on the edge of one of the highest tunnels, its lame leg dangling in the air. The Swordsman, hanging on to his sword as tight as he can, dangles from the beast as it tries to shake him off.
The sword starts to slip.
The Swordsman can feel his blade start to ease its way out of the thrashing beast. He also knows a fall from this height will kill him, regardless of the Monk’s magic.
The sword is hanging on by the very tip. The spider gives one last thrust out.
A voice from beyond the furthest reaches of existence rings through the mouth of the Monk. His Eyes encompass the whole of their casing, eight ethereal, purple tentacles extend from his back. He floats above the ground and flies. And a giant, green eye is wide open behind him, glowing with power. It watches him. It watches the world. It watches everything. It knows everything.
The Monk and the Iris of the Universe have become one.
The Swordsman hits the floor, but it feels cushioned, like landing on a pile of blankets. He bounces back to his feet, and watches the spider skitter up the tunnel.
The Monk returns to his natural state, though dazed, not even having the energy to float. He lands on two feet, his knees buckling, and sending him to the ground. The Swordsman rushes over to him, supporting him with an arm.
The Monk hangs onto his shoulder tightly. “I saved your life, it’s your turn to save mine, dear apprentice.”
Behind his metal casing, the Swordsman smiles.
He takes his master to sit against a wall, and grips his sword in both hands again. And waits.
The skittering is quiet, far away. Then it gets closer. And closer, and closer.
It drops from the ceiling, but this time, the Swordsman is ready. He leaps to the side, watching the beast uncurl itself. He dashes into the air, and swings down onto the spider’s legs.
The front-middle leg from the broken side goes lame with a slash of the sword. The spider collapses to the ground, unable to support its own weight. It scrambles helplessly as the Swordsman slashes at it back legs. Blasts of green energy attack the other side of the spider, the Monk now able to stand on his feet.
Blast after blast, slash after slash, the spider falls still. Its legs are completely severed from its body when the two are done with it, and all four eyes are shattered.
The Monk walks over to the Swordsman, who is surveying the beast, making sure it’s dead.
“I think our work here is done,” the Monk says.
The Swordsman nods, and is about to sheathe his sword, when he hears something.
Or…feels something.
The Monk can feel it, too. He looks all around, trying to find the source.
“Well done, ‘travelers.’”
The Swordsman spins around, blade held out and ready.
The Witch of the Wilds appears, clapping slowly as she strides into the chamber. Her wings are folded behind her, book and broom at her side.
“I thought I might find you here,” she says. “And hello to you too, Zenyatta.”
The Monk dips his head in acknowledgement. “We meet again.”
“You know what I’m here for, then.”
The Swordsman tightens his grip. The Monk places a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, I am aware. But I don’t think you’ll be getting it.”
The Witch laughs, cold and merciless. “Oh, foolish monk. I saved him from the clutches of death. We have a pact forged in blood. I own him.”
The Monk shrugs. “I suppose I cannot interfere with such powerful magic.”
“See? We’re all in agreement. Come here, Genji. Now.”
The Swordsman didn’t budge. He stands tall and sheaths his sword on his back, stepping behind his master.
The Witch’s face screws up in fury. “I said come!”
The Swordsman does not move.
“You see,” the Monk says, returning to his floating lotus position. “I cannot interfere with such powerful magic. But the Iris has no qualms about such things.”
The Witch’s mouth drops open in shock. “How? I – I muzzled him! I stole his dragon! He cannot speak to reverse the oath!”
The Eyes all turn toward the Swordsman and glow.
The Monk tilts his head. “My apprentice says that the Iris gave him a new voice. And that his dragon will have revenge soon enough.”
The Witch balls her fists, and hisses through clenched teeth, “You have not seen the end of me.”
She spreads her wings and disappears in a flash of white light.
In her place, a raven flaps into the tunnel, and drops a letter into the Monk’s lap. He unties the ribbon and reads it, holding it so both he and the Swordsman can see.
“I believe we have a new destination, my apprentice.”
The Eyes turn to the Swordsman and glow. Yes, Master.
